Get Away, Get Away, It's Christmas
by VausemanFinishingSchool
Summary: 2000s AU. While on a Christmas Eve drug spree, rock stars Alex Vause and Nicky Nichols decide to take on Santa's role. Only, the Connecticut house they target (and enter) is certainly less than welcoming. From the 'Euphoria-verse.'
1. Highway to Hell

**One - Highway to Hell**

_**2001**_

_"I'm on the highway to hell_

_On the highway to hel__l_

_Highway to hell_

_I'm on the highway to hell!"_

Alex Vause doesn't know how they ended up whirring along the interstate, AC/DC blasting out into the crisp air, but Nicky's driving and that's hilariously impulsive, because her best friend can't fucking drive, and yet they're there, somewhere, in suburban Stamford, on Christmas Eve, cruising around in Nicky's fearsome Ferrari, minds dazed with a nullifying numbness.

They're fucking invincible.

"Yo, Vause," A burning cigarette cemented between her lips, Nicky tears lidded, bloodshot eyes away from the winding road ahead, "why're we in Connect-the-cunt again? Fuckin' borin' ass state."

Guitar in her lap, Alex vacantly fiddles with the strings as her head bobbles to the shattering sound. "Because you said, and these were your words," she drones, an identically reddish gaze languidly looking to Nicky, "that 'Lorna's rubbing her heterosexual bullshit in my face and I need to get at least fifty miles away from that fucking crap, otherwise I'll shoot myself.' So here we are, fifty miles away from your girlfriend five times removed. Can't have you gunning shit down."

"Fuckin' Christopher." Nicky drawls, her grip rigid on the wheel. "What does that dickwad have that I don't, eh? He's a plain ass whiny bitch. I'm the fuckin' hot shit. I'm tellin' ya, man, she's regrettin' it."

"You're a hot mess." Alex sniggers smugly, and Nicky glares frenzied, frantic and furious, her countenance comical. "How have we not died tonight? You drove at...five-hundred miles per hour. That's really fast."

Nicky dissolves into unrestrained laughter. "Fuck off, Vause! I'm a NASCAR racer! We're in the fuckin' Batmobile! I'm Sonic the motherfuckin' blue Hedgehog! Yeah, I'm a Smurf!"

Alex makes no effort to guise an exaggerated eye roll. "Dude. Please. You're fuckin' Eeyore. Shaggy as fuck and, like, always miserable."

"Fuckin' cunt, you're, uh, Jack Skeleton."

"Not offensive!"

_"Hey Satan, paid my dues_

_Playing in a rocking band_

_Hey mama, look at me_

_I'm on my way to the promised land,_

_whoo!"_

Without even trying, Alex and Nicky belt out the chorus in sublime synchronisation, lyrics tumbling from their tongues like an avalanche gone right. Nicky's insincere road experience sees them swerving to and from the hazardous side, tires scratching and screeching in agony as the harsh, sudden shifts scrapes rubber along tarmac. But in Alex's frivolous float, she doesn't feel any inkling to protest. To her, it's all trapped in slow motion, much like a cleverly coordinated cinematic trick. And she's escaping from her reality, trampling it down and squashing it to obliteration. Fuck yuletide spirit and New Year's nonsense and all the fucking cringeworthy cheeriness that the holidays enforce; this fantastical fantasy, the delusion of their dreams, totally tripped out on a euphoric warmth, bombing around as if the world is their toy, is true jollification.

It's Christmas Eve and they're up-and-coming rock gods, omnipotent creatures crawling through the dusk, charging down winding roads like a lightning bolt.

"Yo, I'm freezin' my nips off, man." Nicky emits a grizzly grunt, briefly peering at Alex.

"Cos' you're wearing a t-shirt, dumbass." Alex giggles loopily. "It's, like, cold."

"Fuckin' bullshittin' winter bullshit."

Sleeves rolled to her shoulders, goosebumps tingle on Nicky's bruised, track marked arms. Alex becomes enamoured with them, for whatever reason, a stupefying spell looming on her mind, but Nicky doesn't notice. Partially preoccupied with the dark, haunting track in her vision, Nicky's taking a puff of her cigarette while adjusting her rearwards snapback, her mane matted and poking out. Draping gold chains clatter as she moves leaden and laboured, and the car sways again,

_sharp._

Unconcerned about anything, a sudden smog of nonsencial nostalgia lurks in Alex's mist. She stares down at her studded, spiked leather bracelets and strokes through lustrous, ultramarine tips in jet-black hair, bangs halfway through their growth. Gazing at her guitar, she knows it's become iconically vintage, boasting a rebellious red body and meticulous metallic features; she can't remember bringing it along for the ride, but as she runs her fingers across the smooth, preserved paintwork, another waver of blinding contentment grapples her mind, and she's not complaining about that.

It's no longer the nineties, but _fuck_ that, they've never played by the rules, and they're nineties children at heart. They're up-and-coming rock gods; they'll do as they wish, say what they desire, dismiss fucking Christmas from existence.

"Bro, check it. It's Morello's bush."

Alex's head jolts to either side in a breakneck revelation, thoughts enrapturing with queer possibility. "What?!" Where?!"

"There. Furry ass thing." As Nicky points to a blackened hedge, Alex creases up in short snickers, ever consumed by her nebulous blur. Nicky responds with a lazy shrug and smiles skewed. "Dude, she's Italian. They're hairy as fuck. She's gotta go full fuckin' Hollywood to tame that vajayjay. Proper Pussy Galore."

Alex leans over her guitar, her hand fumbling through the pack of beers, still chortling away. "James Bond is wank, Nichols."

"Edward Scissorhands can't finger fuck 'em, can he?" Nicky shakes her head, tugs out the cigarette and exhales a plume of grey cloud, one hand loosely stabilising the wheel. "Imagine that shit."

"I called Sylvie that and she took it as a compliment."

Nicky pops her cigarette back in place, the stem reduced to an ashen nub. "Fuckin' Christ, your girl's a dumb fuckin' cunt."

"Fuck girl." Alex smirks as she tugs out two cans. "And Lorna's a dumb cunt, man. Fuckin' dumb for dumping your sorry ass."

"Totally, dude."

Slender fingers glued to the can, Alex pulls up the tab and hands it to Nicky, who tosses the depleted cigarette out of the window, casts her head back and takes a prolonged, guzzling swig, her snapback on the verge of sliding off. Alex unfastens another can and gulps down her fair share, relishing in the cool, tasteful liquid trickling along her throat, her mind pleasantly void of all intent. As the pounding music dissipates, they continue to drink in an easy silence and polish off another can each, slipping their way through dimly lit streets, the roar of the engine exploding into the night.

A comfortable fatigue floats fast and free, and Alex finds her vision softening and muddled. Far-flung off the gritty ground, Alex Vause is remote in her lifeless endeavor, riddled with a desirable distance. Even the meteoric whirlwind is laggard, sedated in its surprising speed. She's calm and everything's fantastical, enchanting, illusory in her very reality. Slowly stroking the strings of her guitar, she stares out of the window, and the silver crescent dully glistens back like smudged chalk on a blackboard, almost as if it's trying to talk. And maybe it is.

Wait.

A dazzle of interest sparks Alex's mind, and that familiar euphoria slugs through her haze. "Hey, Nichols," She murmurs, attentively studying the sky, "I've got an idea."

"Yo, bro, I fuckin' love ideas." Nicky grins hollowly. "What's your idea?"

"Okay, so yunno how Santa Claus is flying above us?" Alex asserts excitedly, earning several nods from Nicky. "Like, he's up there, reindeer pulling around his fat ass, throwing presents to all the fuckin' screaming brats in good old 'Merica?"

"Yeah, dude, pretty sure I'm seein' him." Her gaze bleary, flickering and unfocused, Nicky languidly raises an arm. "Look, the spec up there, goin' over the moon."

"Holy fuckin' shit!" Alex exclaims, swearing she sees a soft shape speeding along the mystic, radiant orb of misty twilight skies. "Nichols, it's Santa Claus!"

"Yo, Santa!" Nicky hollers. "I'm still on your naughty list, right?! Fuckin' Jew hatin' asshat! Excluding non-Jesus worshippers! Hypocritical cunt!"

"No, no!" Alex demands, unable to comprehend her whimsical discovery. "This is the idea! We can get off the naughty list by doing Santa's work!"

"How?! We ain't got any-ohhhhh!" Nicky drawls loud and proud in a sudden realisation. "Holy shit, Vause!" Stretching to Alex's side, one hand guiding the wheel, Nicky filters through a collection of ornaments disposed on the floor. "We got all the stockin' fillers right here! Dope, more dope, fag pack, lighter, lighter, beers, and an empty bottle a' Jacky Daniel's! Dude, these little shits are hittin' the motherfuckin' jackpot!"

"Our status on the nice list is saved!" Alex chants, a seamless elation swamping her system.

"Bam!" Nicky thrusts back into her seat, her other hand flying to the wheel and dragging it down, causing an abrupt, convulsing shift in her driving line,

but neither of them care to notice.


	2. You're Going to Spooky Land

A/N: Happy New Year to fellow Orange fans the world over! Here's to a great 2020, where (hopefully) we shall get the spinoff we've all been craving!

Thank you for the interest in this little spinoff story. I hope you're enjoying it! :)

* * *

**Two - You're Going to Spooky Land **

Piper Chapman has always spent Christmas Eve at her grandmother's.

It's an old, stately home, elongated corridors stretching into unknown territory, abandoned rooms a portal of ambiguity. With cobwebs in corners, rickety wooden stairs and a senile television in the large living area, Piper and Cal often associate Celeste Chapman's humble abode with a haunted house. Danny's hilariously terrified of it all, but Piper (who'd _never_ wish to offend her beloved grandmother) shifts in the shadows, craftily observing the action from afar.

For what feels like the umpteenth time, they're sat on the sinking couch watching the last minutes of 'Home Alone,' and Cal's in admiration of the very concept, starstruck eyes goggling in disbelief. Danny chuckles, smoothes out the creases on his Christmas sweatshirt, and gently pats Cal's head. Piper observes her brothers in a slight spite; though there's an age gap of ten years, Cal and Danny exhibit a bond Piper can't wholly reciprocate. She knows it's Christmas and Danny doesn't see much of them nowadays, but she can't steer herself from the slanted slope. It's unjust, preferential, as though she's alien and strange, the unorthodox in their painfully monotonous family.

Maybe she's always wanted that. Wishing to be the outlandish oddity of the Chapman ménage. The unique. The special. The queer.

Or maybe she hasn't. She's only fourteen years old, but _her_ desires, whatever they may be, are banished beneath the surface of a shimmering facade, not ever allowing her to uncover the unknown. Law is ingrained into her futile ambitions, but it isn't either. She doesn't _know _what she's after in life, and that, to the Chapmans, would be an act of criminality. At her age it shouldn't particularly matter, but Carol Chapman rules their home with a rocky fist, indiscreet in her need to dictate, and thus Piper can't restrain the thought. Even on Christmas Eve.

Perhaps Danny can see it and perhaps he can't, but they've never discussed what happens in their home. They never discuss _anything_ on their minds, because such coldness, reserve and dishonesty is fully fleshed in their household. _E__ven _on Christmas Eve, where her parents safely escape the perils of Santa Claus' trek and host their annual adult-only dinner.

Piper likes to think she's used to it.

She prides herself on piercing straight through her family's farce, knows exactly of their faux functionality, but since _that _act of sly deception, the dishonor that's silently shredded her parents' marriage, she refrains from speaking out; it doesn't matter. And Cal's only eleven, short in stature and fresh faced, hair spiked into tiny tips (Carol thought of it as rather scandalous) and a cheery, delightful smile plastered to his lips. Cal Chapman, quite literally grasping the phrase 'Hakuna Matata,' is admirably optimistic, always adamant on remaining true to himself. Piper silently envies that too, and she doesn't doubt that Danny shares her feeling, but she's not one to sabotage Cal's innocence for the sake of her own vendetta.

"Piper!" Cal demands, itching with gargantuan glee, and Piper is quickly dragged out of her inner sanctum. "D'ya know what tomorrow is?!"

"Hmm." Piper smirks; the movie's obviously finished and Cal's itching with a childish mindlessness, to which Piper finds hysterically adorable. She _has _to take it up a notch. "Is it Easter? No, wait. Valentine's Day. It _must_ be Valentine's Day, right?"

"Pipes, stop grinding his gears." Danny chuckles, his back perfectly poised against the slumping sofa. "Tomorrow's _obviously_ Thanksgiving."

"Are you two dumb?!" Cal exclaims. "We had all those things! Grandmother, grandmother, what's tomorrow?!"

Celeste Chapman peers up from her crocheted creation and offers a kind smile, thin glasses collapsing to the bridge of her nose. "I wouldn't know, dear. Why don't you tell us?"

"It's Christmas!" Cal jumps off the sofa, his stubby arms flailing in mid-air. "_D__uh!_ Kevin McCallister's home alone during _Christmas! _Not Valentine's or Thanksgiving!"

"Technically he was left during Hanukkah and Kawanzaa too." Piper points out. "The movie never discusses those holidays."

"Smarty pants!"

"What?" Piper questions, a frown pressing on her lips, ever the sensitive soul. "How am I the smarty pants?"

"Because you're always trying to be clever." Danny figures. "A clean sweep of A-pluses does not a mastermind make."

Piper rolls her eyes, her grilling glare settling on Danny. "Oh, you can really talk, Mr College. You live in your chemistry textbooks. It's a miracle you're even celebrating Christmas."

Danny raises a deriding finger. "Ah, but if we're _really _talking technical terms, our family is inherently agnostic. So we shouldn't celebrate the birth of someone's existence we overtly dispel."

"But because we're WASPS - and I stress the 'P' in that acronym - Christianity is still in our blood."

"What're you two talking about?" Cal wonders, curiously piquing.

"Why are you so nosy?" Piper coolly retorts.

Danny snickers. "He obviously gets it from you."

"I'm not nosy." Piper states, swiftly settling on her defense. "I like to find things out. I like to investigate stuff. Like Penny and the Brain. It's a good thing."

"If you say so, Piper." Danny shrugs, unusually nonchalant in his drying tone. "Who am I to disagree, right?"

"And what _exactly_ do you mean by that, Daniel?"

"Children, there's no need for this nonsense." Celeste slices through the heating exchange. "It's still Christmas Eve, so Saint Nicholas might want to make a last-minute adjustment to his naughty list."

"Yeah!" Cal giggles, profoundly nodding in agreement. "You guys won't get _anything!"_

"What a disaster." Piper grumbles; as with everything else, Santa Claus is a hoax, the figment of imaginative young minds, the ludicrous fantasy being their very reality, and Piper's too mature to hold a rigid, relentless belief in what isn't there; it's pure insanity to see otherwise.

Ignorant to Piper's dismay, Cal quickly turns to Celeste, hair spikes jolting in the sharp twist. "Grandmother, can we watch another movie? Please?"

Celeste glances at her watch. "It _is_ rather late, Callum."

_"Please?" _Cal pouts. "Pretty please with a thousand cherries on top, grandmother? C'mon, it's Christmas Eve."

"Oh, alright." Celeste chuckles. "Just one more. But don't tell your father I allowed this. Your bedtime was over an hour ago."

"Yes!"

As Cal springs up from his seat and reclaims the remote, Piper sighs and allows her body to slump alongside the ageing sofa, knowing she'll get away with her incorrect etiquette. Another unnecessary movie flashing before her eyes and she's further down the rabbit hole, trapped in the painless eternity of a swarming dictation,

even on Christmas Eve.

* * *

Parked in a silent side turning, Alex and Nicky simultaneously smash the keys of their gleaming Game Boys and snort up a much needed dosage, highs threatening to escape through the seams.

They're in need of a break before their act of heroism.

Alex drags her sleeve along the tip of her dampening nose, instantly dislodging the perfectly pretty powder. Glued to the screen, she's captivated by the newest release in the 'Pokémon' franchise (because _fuck_ adulthood). Silently beguiled, Alex Vause is ensnared in another false world, layers of unreality encompassing her lethargy. As she selects a key and shifts the glitchy avatar from dormancy, Nicky starts to scream out slurred obscenities, an incredible compulsion ascending to dingy skies.

"Get in there, you piece a' shit! I've wasted fifteen Poké Balls on your yellowtail ass!" Nicky puffs on a freshly lit cigarette, the tip of orange glowing in the gloomy dusk. "Get in the fuckin' ball!"

"What're you trying to catch?" Alex queries, eyes refusing to shift from her console.

"Pikachu, bro."

Alex snorts. "Pikachu's a shit Pokémon, Nichols. The anime glorifies it."

"Magikarp's the pile of fuckin' piss. Can't battle for shit."

"Magikarp evolves into Gyarados."

"Doesn't matter." Nicky grunts, fingers pounding the console. "While it's still Magikarp, it's a pile of piss."

"Just like your relationship with Morello."

Nicky flinches, retreats from gameplay, synthesized electronic music booming in the shadows, and a tiny piece of Alex shrieks in reluctance. "Can we _not_ talk about her?"

"We're not." Alex snickers, and an obtuse vacancy leaks through her suppressed outcry. "I'm just saying, man."

"Well _I'm_ just sayin'." Nicky's mascara-coated lashes waver in exasperation. "I don't wanna talk about her. Fuckin' dumpin' me on Thanksgiving, fuckin' bitch. I-I've been high for a fuckin' month cos' of her."

_"And?"_ Alex scoffs insincerely. "So have I. You're not that special, Nichols. Just wait til' New Year's. She'll be sliding straight back into your sheets."

"Y-Yeah, dude." Nicky gives a hazy, languid smirk, her coasting high drifting along. "I'll get her cummin' on the stroke of midnight. She'll be screamin' my name right inta' 2002."

Alex and Nicky chuckle in unison, spacing into the twinkling stars, relishing in their soaring delirium. Focus rebounding on the games at hand, a farcical fabrication pushes forth, and they're immersed into a soothing, misty serenity once again.

* * *

"Again!"

Cal's grabbing back fistfuls of false dollar bills and playing cards and figurines and anything else he can snatch in his shrunken grip. Another shambolic round of 'Monopoly' detonates, and the disorganized evidence proves just that. It's a incredible mess, almost like a purposeful trash tip, because Cal Chapman has the ability to oil the chaotic cogs and keep them at a beneficial constant; _h__e__'s_ the oddity, the unique, the special, absolutely untameable in a life that persistently demands the very opposite.

Piper doesn't know how to feel about that, doesn't know if she _should _feel anything, because Cal's younger and oblivious to his family's hidden misfortune. It's buried below layers of a dwelling silence, beyond a simulation of reason and permanence, of country clubs and skiing trips to the Alps and private education. Piper likes to think she could unveil all to Cal, could drill through each sheen of plastic, but by stapling her mouth shut, she can't possibly chant the commands.

"Cal, it's really late." Piper exhales, patience slimming by the second, internal frustrations boiling and brewing in the cauldron. "Grandmother's been in bed for _ages_, Danny went up an hour ago-"

"And you're still here." Cal plops down the cluttered pile of colourful dollars, edges crumpled and coiled.

"Because I'm not leaving you unsupervised." Piper huffs, folding her arms in defensive defiance.

"Ugh." Cal grumbles, and Piper instantly unleashes an icy glare. "Why've you gotta be _boring? _I'm just staying up for Santa."

"You wouldn't believe how many times I've been asked-"

"Why aren't you fun like Polly?"

_"Polly_ is your idea of fun?" Piper protests, another nerve struck by the softest of lightening; the obscure comparison to Polly is certainly one to be challenged. "Seriously, Cal? She's too scared to watch 'Monsters, Inc.' That's anything but fun."

"So are you." Cal deadpans.

"Well that's not-"

"And you're scared of 'Yu-Gi-Oh.'" A taunting grin spreads across Cal's lips. "You're scared of _everything.__"_

"Because Yu-Gi-Oh is terrifying." Piper sullenly states. "Dragons with three heads. Creepy Egyptian puzzles. Unrealistic hairstyles. How are you _not _scared of it?"

"Mother's scarier than any monster." Cal shrugs, fumbling with the dice. "All she's gotta do is give the angry eyes and boom, you're going to spooky land."

Piper suppresses a snigger, successfully deterring the rapid dash of entertainment. "If you listened to her a bit more, maybe she wouldn't."

"It's super fun to annoy her. She'll always get mad without the crazy yelling. Like, it's a _quiet _mad. Same with daddy. And Danny. And-"

"Okay, I get it." Piper groans, amusement descending as quickly as it arose; he's her brother and she'd never penalise him, not for _anything_, but the strange discussion is like a looming, ghostly presence that randomly chooses to intrude. "You don't need to rewrite your whole Christmas list."

"_Why?"_

Piper expels a deep sigh. "Why what, Cal?"

"Why's nobody a shouter?" Cal queries, innocence a striking beacon of radiance. "Is it cos' everyone wants to stay off the naughty list? Even grandmother?"

Perhaps she'd like to and perhaps she wouldn't, but Piper isn't one to unlock the prison of treacherous fraud. She's forever known morals of a finely tuned kind, sheltered from a broken life of truthful trickery, her conscious remaining as the debutante doll. Cal's fresh-faced and vibrant, blinking brown eyes riddled with a sweet naivety. He blissfully slides along without that knowledge, without _any _knowledge, and Piper doesn't truly seek to change his course. Perhaps she'd like to and perhaps she wouldn't, but he's her brother, the minor in their clan, the cheerful cherub, the one set to break the monotonous mould, and for Piper to admit _anything _is like treading up gravelly terrain.

"The naughty list _does_ seem pretty bad, huh?" She offers a feigned, tight smile, eternally the master of forcing her true thoughts within a grand guise.

"Yeah." Cal frowns, unmistakably perturbed by the proposition. "There'd be no presents. And everyone likes presents. Even old people."

"Yeah." Piper sighs. "Even old people."

* * *

Alex isn't sure how long she's been waating away, utterly brain fucked by the drugs and the game and the bottomless pit of time, but as Nicky prepares another short hit on the dashboard, the shrilling Game Boy resting on her thigh, Alex knows (somewhat) that it's time to make a move. There's only so many hours until daylight emerges, and Alex isn't yet seeking for another top up.

In one swift move, she's honing in on Nicky and confiscating the Game Boy, earning a loud, petulant whine of protest. "Break over, Nichols. We've got work to do."

"C-C'mon!" Nicky shrieks, grabbing hands flailing out in a desperate attempt to reclaim her possession, wide eyes frantically wandering from the pinch of powder, to the console, and back to the powder. "I was just gettin' to the eigth gym!"

Alex tosses both consoles to the backseat, tunes remaining pitchy and coarse, bright light persistent, battery life decrepit and drained by every trailing second. "I don't think I've seen you get to one gym."

"Yeah, yeah, we're both lazy fucks." Nicky grumbles, spinning her snapback around. "And the gym's fuckin' humiliating. Knuckleheads posing with their gross ass abs. Why do straight chicks dig that anyway?"

Alex aimlessly fidgets with a hoodie string. "What about the conga line of tits and ass?"

Nicky flashes a grimly proud smirk as she reclaims the slimly rolled dollar bill and leans into the dashboard, sniffling nostrils inches away from another flush of euphoric pleasure. "I'm banned from Morello's gym for that very reason."

"What the fuck did you-"

"Uh, wait. Lemme just, uh..." As Nicky snorts up the unsightly mess, her straining face instantly relaxes. She sits back up and harshly drags a finger across her nose. "Yeah, uh, I slapped some beta bitch's ass while she was halfway through the squats."

Alex chuckles, a bedazzled reluctance fuelling her tone; she knows it's not good and they're tearing apart, falling further into the gurgling belly of the beast, but she's too emotionally stunted to truly give a shit. "Jesus Christ, Nichols. Seriously?"

"I-I was fuckin' smashed, a'right? Didn't know if I was comin' or goin'." Nicky reclines in her seat and slides her arms behind her head, the flat cap brim sinking into her face.

"Just keep it in your pants. Not every woman is gay."

"You can't talk, Vause. Your Gyarados is a beast. I've had the utmost displeasure of seeing that thing on multiple occasions."

"Wait, are you becoming curious about cock?" Alex asks, inflicted with an incredulous snark. "The Nicky Nichols, whose qualifications in pussy eating don't _quite_ exceed mine," As Alex smirks lopsided, Nicky scoffs in a sulk, "is turning to the long side? Ooh, happy fuckin' New Year, ladies."

"Fuck no." Nicky loosely gazes at Alex. "After the thing with Jacob Spitz, I vowed to never touch another dick. It looked like my Uncle Ray's wonky eye."

"Did he actually spit? Or was it another one of Jessica Wedge's rumours?"

"I started that off. Jessica Wedge just spread it."

Alex nods, carelessly lounging back on the headrest. "So you're responsible for ruining someone's life. Congrats."

"Eh, whatever." Nicky shrugs, slumping further in her seat. "He was a little shit."

Game Boys long dozing off, a vacuum of insincere tranquility emerges. Alex cranks up the radio, and a shock wave of grinding metal is kind to her shattered ears. The car vibrates with strident, raucous chords, sounds seeping out into the atmosphere, but Alex is drawn into a thunderous blast of sublime satisfaction. She _lives _for her music. Would _die _for her music. It's like the blood that pumps her veins, the air that fills her lungs. She couldn't possibly regard her surroundings, because that refuses the very force of her conscience, what serves her only purpose.

They're there, somewhere, in suburban Stamford, on Christmas Eve, high out of their wits, their constant _fucking_ wallowing repressed until the dawning of sadistic sobriety.

Free on her float, Alex starts to stare into the distance as Nicky ignites another cigarette. She sees that they're parked in a long, splendidly lit side turning, and it's almost too much for her weary mind to contain. Shadows of naked trees whisp in winter winds, and perfectly pretty houses are set back behind them. Dazzling Christmas lights feature on each home, from gorgeous greens to radiant reds, but each one is strikingly similar to the next. The colours speak to Alex, telling their tales of grand effort and success; the Christmas that everyone aspires to achieve, but the Christmas she'd dread to experience.

Safety, stability, monotony. That's not her game.

Alex continues to scan the scene, painting a picture of bright, hopeful splashes admist the blanket of blackness. And yet, the picture stunts in its creative progression, for Alex settles on a single home and returns to the drawing board. It blends immaculately into the dark, with only specs of rectangular light creeping out. Absent of decorations, it's a hawking hulk of a house, impersonal and disinterested in any insignificant attempt to celebrate the holidays. Though it makes minimal effort to stand out, _that _home is all Alex manages to see, carved out in her artistic vision.

"How about that one?" She nods towards it.

Nicky's busy blowing a steady flurry of smoke rings, but she slowly stops, peers at the house, and faces Alex. "What about it?"

"We Santa Clausin' round their chimney?"

"Dude, that sounds paedophilic. I'm surprised Uncle Pete's not makin' a dash right about now."

"How many weird uncles do you have?"

"Fuck knows." Nicky shrugs, taking a particularly prolonged drag. "It's a cult in the heart of Manhattan. So, uh," she blinks, flicks the cigarette out of the window, and the subject suddenly switches course, "why that house?"

Alex chuckles low and bitter. "Looking at it makes me wanna kill myself."

"Amen, sister. It's like the personification of our constant fuckin' misery. Dead inside and no lights. Bet we'd cheer 'em up, eh?"

"Well we've gotta dress the part first." Alex only half means it, hardly caring for the appropriate attire, but she figures it'd be amusing to irk her friend.

Nicky peels off her cap and shoots Alex a side-eyeing glance. "You think I've got a fuckin' Santa costume lyin' around my trunk?"

"Oh, I bet you've got all sorts of weird shit in there. Porno mags, a crate of cigarettes, countless baggies of sugar."

"Ah. I love snortin' some good ol' sugar."

Limbs flailing to the handle, Alex pulls it back and pushes the car door with inert leisure, arms creaking under the restraint. "Don't we all."

Alex sways heavy feet outside and slides out of the car, thick boots thumping against unruly granite. She staggers to the back, dead on her heels, and Nicky slacks around the driver's side. Like a horseshoe, their ends ultimately unite, and they hover over the trunk. Finally observing the glossy, flaming Ferrari in its fantastical stillness, Alex sees that the car boasts a splendid grandeur. Not so dissimilar to her own Mercedes, but at least she can drive (somewhat). Nicky's smirking at the car, corrupted by her complacance, and it's little more than a vanity project. Why Alex didn't insist on driving is an enigma (or perhaps she did, who knows), but with those deathly drugs, the heroin forever fuelling her system, numbing all sense of being, it wouldn't matter if she did.

"Lorna picked out the colour." Nicky chuckles, fingers caressing the sleek surface. "Thought it matched her lipstick. She's fuckin' adorable."

"Didn't you ban her from all our convos?"

Nicky sloppily spins around and leans against the trunk. "I-I still love her, man."

"Yeah, you're like a fucking puppy around her." Alex fires ahead, embracing the opportunity for scornful ammunition. "It's just cringey, Nichols. Are you sure _she's_ not the domme?"

"Okay, picture this." Nicky asserts, hands grasping her chunky belt. "It's New Year's Eve. I'm handcuffed to bed, gag in my throat. My ass is in the air and she's floggin' it non-stop. She's talkin' dirty to me, whispering in her fuckin' sexy cute voice, saying it's a new year and shit's changing. Telling me I'ma fuckin' slut, that I'm her little bitch, and dude, I'm goin' _crazy." _She pauses, her toothy grin enrapturing with a bestial lust. "Now isn't that nuts?"

Alex blinks, smirking by slight, sceptical eyebrows on the rise; she knows exactly how filthy Nicky's mind is, but those overtly lecherous rambles are often unexpected. "Don't you think it's odd that you've suddenly thought of a fantasy so detailed?"

Nicky forces out a breathy, brittle laugh, and Alex's smirk spreads like blazing wildfire. Relinquishing her power is foreign, intimidating, a large leap in the face of submission, and Alex knows all too well about that. Such vulnerability is horrific, with neither wanting to drop their deceptive semblance.

"U-Uh, are we lookin' in there or not?!" Nicky stammers out, levelling her body off the trunk and clapping her hands. "C'mon, let's open sesame this motherfucker!"

As Nicky pushes up the trunk, Alex slyly peers at its extensive variety of contents. Crumpled magazines tossed over piles of bagged powder, Alex doesn't doubt what either contains. She's stimulated just by the fantastical sight, lips subconsciously licking in an explosion of desire, the eternal need to get high, come down, get high, come down. But at the moment she's mounting the heavens, gliding along plump clouds, spiralling upwards from her existence; she doesn't wish to lunge forth and seize what's there, magazines or baggies.

Nicky rummages through the trunk, carelessly flinging her coat to one side, pushing past a burnt crack pipe, deep on the hunt for nothing. She hurls baggie after baggie, creating disorganised ruin inside, everything jumbled in an unstable sense of self. But underneath it all comes a more stable, substantial object, slowly unveiled within the chaos; a long, metallic calibre, fit to secure the finest of bullets. Death in its very reality, Alex doesn't know or understand why Nicky keeps the weapon in her trunk,

but given their history, she doesn't pull Nicky up. She simply accepts.

"Hey, what brand is that?" Alex queries, speedily casting the thought astray. "Benelli Armi?"

Nicky stops scrambling through the countless objects and nods, retrieving the handgun in her grip. "You know your firearms, Vause. It's nine millimetres, semi-automatic. Got a great shot. I always use it at the shooting range."

"Hmm." Alex mumbles, attentively analysing its smooth craftsmanship. "Is it loaded?"

"Is the sky full of purple polka dots?" Nicky flings the handgun back into the trunk, frightfully nonchalant by its brutal, poisonous value.

Alex shakes her head in disdain. "You are so full of bullshit. That's not loaded. Look," she points to the handgun, "I can see it's disarmed."

"Didn't know you could actually see."

"Fuck you, Nichols."

"Look, dude," Nicky sighs and rakes her fingers through her hair, pushing it back. "I, uh, haven't got any Santa shit. Can't we just Stormtroop the place?"

Alex sniggers, unable to avoid the laughable picture that suddenly intrudes her mind. "Do _not_ say 'Stormtroop.'"

"Why? Most normal people like 'Star Wars.'" Nicky stretches up, grappling the end of the trunk lid.

"Morello told me about your ever-so-sexy Stormtrooper boxers." Alex flashes a cocky wink. "Now that's _very_ attractive."

"Yeah, yeah." Nicky rolls her eyes, vigorously slamming the trunk shut and toppling by slight. "She wore 'em the next morning. The bitch stole half my fuckin' closet."

"Well she's always wearing your hoodies."

"Doubt she is now, man. I've been dumped."

Alex frowns, and a slight concern trickles through her lucid daze. "I still don't get how you put up with her shit."

Nicky's gaze drops to the sidewalk. "Y-You don't have to."

Alex can't be sure, but with the illuminous decorations as her aid, it appears that Nicky's eyes glaze over with a dank, deserted despair. It's been happening at an unforgivable pace, Nicky and Lorna attracting, repelling, attracting, as though they're two unstable magnets, and Alex knows (kind of) that it's bound to take a horrific toll on Nicky's sanity. But Alex is quite accustomed to it, can utter the frantic chapters by heart, so she opts out of sympathising. And besides, she needs to figure out how they'll enter that house; offering her constant condolences is a pointless, wasteful endeavour, because the attraction will inevitably recommence.

"Earth to Nicky." Alex states, clicking her fingers.

Nicky jolts back into reality, focus tearing from below. "What?"

"How are we getting in there?" Alex looks to the house, its desolation still intact. "I'd rather not clog my lungs with smoke, so I'm thinking the chimney is a no-go."

"I do that on a half hour basis. Doesn't scare me."

"I meant _me."_

Nicky frowns, brow creasing, options weighed on the scales of credibility. "You remember how to pick locks? We ain't done that since we were kids."

Alex's usual eyebrow is on the rise, readying for the opposition. "Nichols, we're twenty-one. Did you think we were teens during the Second World War? The Great Depression, _yeah_, but..." Alex frowns, cast in deep contemplation. "Wait, no, that happened before."

"Great Depression's still happenin' up there." Nicky thumps against her head. "Ain't movin' for shit. Like it's parked up there. Now you got a hair pin or what?"

"I dunno." Alex responds with an idle shrug. "Do _you _have a hair pin? If you don't, I think you should get one. Or fifty. Or a thousand."

"Ha, ha, fuck off." Nicky retorts, her cocksure smirk ever constant. "All the girls think my hair is soft and fluffy. They love pullin' on it when I'm suckin' up their cum."

"Now you're just being fucking gross." Alex grins airy and fazed, void of any intent. "On a scale of one to ten, how horny are you?"

"Uh, so if you didn't have a dick I'd be pouncing on you right now." Nicky slams down the trunk with unnecessary force. "But hey, you've got beautiful tits. I wouldn't mind banging on those drums again."

"Yeah, _whatever." _Alex drawls, dangling a flippant hand. "I don't care. Just do it."

"Dude, I was-"

"Are you a _pussy_, Nichols?" Alex teases, her conscience ill-defined with dulling exhaustion. "Santa Claus can't go into kids' houses with a raging lady boner. If you wanna play with my tits, do it and stop chatting shit. I'll lick your pussy if it shuts you up."

"Huh." Nicky nods. "Nice offer. Two for the price of one."

"Consider it your post-break up Christmas indulgence."

"Cool, cool." Nicky reaches out to pat Alex's shoulder. "Thanks, Vause. Just, uh, keep that ding-dong away, yeah? Outta sight, outta mind."

Alex rolls her eyes, strolling to the front of the car. "Whatever, Nichols."


	3. The Two Hole-In-Ones

A/N: It's well past Christmas now but alas, once I have published something I really like, I have to finish it. So, to keep our Christmas spirit alive into 2020, here is another chapter featuring these two crazy kids!

As for Euphoria, chapter eleven is currently being written, but tis' taking awhile to get its quality up to scratch. I'm hoping it'll be up within the week. Sorry for the delay.

P.S: To the Guest that said they don't understand the story, you're literally not meant to, lol. It's a crackfic that I've enjoyed writing (just to detox from all the angst I write) and a few are following. Clearly other people do understand that it's not meant to be taken seriously.

* * *

**Three - The Two Hole-In-Ones**

Alex ascends from the backseat breathless, clammy with sweat, and the tight tent swelling down in her jeans. They don't do it often, not anymore, but she's high as fuck and eternally alone and Nicky's always there to lend a helpful hand, for they're both stuck in the gyrating whirlpool of despair, so she figures it doesn't matter.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and they're both descending into utter desertion.

Nicky readjusts her snapback, another lit cigarette already dangling from her lips, pleasantly oblivious to anything and everything. Tender from their sluggard foreplay, what with the dots of hickeys and the scratches from Nicky's rings, Alex rubs tingling breasts. She's grateful that Nicky even _bothered _to get her off (that's incredibly rare), but that doesn't mean she's accustomed to another authoritative figure; being subdued isn't her forte, and Nicky almost always asserts herself as the dominant. They've never given it a shot, not properly, as a _couple, _and even in the admist of her supple, vacant vision, Alex understands why. They'd never last.

"You mauled my tits." Alex states, continuing to knead sore skin.

Nicky slumps down, an arm nestling behind her drooping head. "You weren't complainin' when I was beatin' your meat."

"I get that your spirit animal is a lion, but you do not need to gnaw on my skin like you're Simba."

"Dude, I am Simba." Nicky flashes her usual cocksure grin, filled with pluming fog. "I got the mane, the Rings of Power," she holds up heavily ringed fingers, "and my middle name means 'lioness.' I'm a fully-fuckin'-fledged beast. Now you, on the other hand, are like the Big Bad Wolf from 'Shrek.'"

"What?" Alex scoffs. "No way. Wolves are fucking cool. Where's your logic? Up your ass? Like your head? That's what _Morello-"_

"Yeah, yeah." Nicky rolls flickering eyes. "It's cos' you ain't wearin' your wolf rings. Your power is invalid."

"The average human being doesn't wake up in the morning and aspire to look like they're from the ghetto. Hip-Hop isn't our genre, Nichols."

"Neither's Emocore."

"Emocore's _rock_, assface." Alex grumbles sulkily, a slight offense accounted for; nobody dares to insult _her_ music. Not even Nicky. "Educate yourself. Not everything revolves around your constant daydreams of humongous floppy boobs."

"What can I say, man?" Nicky slothfully drawls. "I'm a passionate tit king. My old room was covered in _highly_ detailed sketches of 'em. They scared Marka shitless, but, uh, I blamed it on AP Biology homework. Dumb cunt fell for it."

"Homework?" Alex snorts. "Maybe my memory's fucked, but I don't think you ever knew the meaning. 'Can I copy you, Vause' was your catchphrase. I'm surprised you never used it for your yearbook quote."

"Dude, I only kept askin' you cos' Lorna refused to let me copy hers." Nicky refastens her seatbelt. "Even when we were going out. She was an ass-kisser. The Catholicism made her a stick-in-the-mud."

'Holier-than-thou." Alex mindlessly reciprocates the action, only faintly recalling its existence on the journey so far; maybe she wore it and maybe she didn't, but either way she couldn't give a shit.

"You're tellin' me, bro." Nicky takes a drag of her cigarette. "She's so fuckin' gay it's crazy."

Alex cocks an eyebrow, her smirk effortlessly lazy and lopsided. "Gayer than us?"

"Nobody's gayer than us, Vause. We'll carpet munch all over the showrooms in IKEA. You and me, we're as queer as a nine-dollar bill."

"We might as well drape ourselves in pride flags and sing 'Kiss That Counted' on a daily basis."

Nicky snickers. "Remember when we walked into junior prom wearing rainbow suits and got the DJ to play 'I'm Coming Out' on a fifteen minute loop?"

Alex shakes her head, the incident flashing through hazy thoughts in a beat. "Even if an apocalyptic crisis wiped out my memory, the look on Healy's face is something I'll _never_ forget. And we were legends after that day, which is a pretty nifty bonus."

"We waved our magic fuckin' wands and _poof_, all that delightful homophobia fucked off into Jessica Wedge's ass crack. Hey, remember when I gave the Wedge a wedgie in the changing room?"

Alex gives an idle smile. "I'd relive that day a _hundred_ times over."

"What, her assaulting us with dodgeballs and makin' me so pissed I nearly got expelled? You'd relive that?"

"What do you think, dumbass?" Alex scoffs, thrusting back her falling frames. "I'm talking about junior prom."

"Yo, like 'Groundhog Day?'" Nicky steals a short puff on her half-finished cigarette before tossing it out of the window. "Where the same shit keeps happening? Sounds fuckin' awful if you ask me."

"Lorna ate you out for the first time that night. Isn't that something _you'd _wanna relive?"

"Fuck, man. She's hella talented. But, uh, you already know that, right? Bet she sucked your cock real fuckin' good, left you wantin' more."

Alex doesn't know how to react, doesn't know if she _should _react, but Nicky's lifeless, weighty gaze sends sudden shuddering shockwaves to her numbed system. It's the first time she's felt _anything_ since forever, whenever, her living high tackled and combated by dormant insecurities. Always the professional at casting her emotions astray, never allowing the curtain of her charade to falter on stage, Alex suppress the gnarling horror inside and explodes into a fit of forced laughter.

"W-What?" She queries, the stammering unforeseen; she's neverhesitant, never wholly on the urge, and _especially_ when she's surfing the tsunamic waves of heroin.

"Let bygones be bygones, bro!" Nicky expels a brittle bellow and jostles Alex's elbow with slightly more force than necessary. "I _totally_ understand. Get yourself a girl who can do both. That's one of my grand life mottos, yunno?"

"Yeah." Alex murmurs, ignoring the sharp twinge that dares to detract her high. "I know, man."

"So, uh," Nicky clears her throat unnecessarily loud and obnoxious, not once but _twice_, absolutely adamant to take further charge, "we still doin' that thing?"

"What thing?" Alex drones distantly. "The Santa Claus thing?"

"Dunno, Vause. You wanted to do it. Spread some fuckin' holiday cheer all round Connect-the-cunt. Don't be a chicken shit."

"Fuck off." Alex growls. "We're still doing it."

"Cool, cool, bro." Nicky nods. "Cool like Coolio. Lemme just, uh," she leans forward in her seat, torso pressed against the large steering wheel, "get nearer to the house."

Alex sniggers indiscreetly at the sight, unstoppable in her pursuit to ridicule Nicky. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Gettin' nearer to the house." Nicky retorts as if it's the most blatant thing in existence.

"Move the car, not your ass. You've got a gas pedal at your foot, Nichols."

"Uh, Vause," Nicky's fingers creep under her hat brim and furiously massage her creasing temple, "which one's the gas again? The right...? Fuck, uh, what's the difference between right and left? Both tits look the same, so I can't use _those_ for guidance..."

"Didn't you say Shira's right tit was bigger than the left?" Alex cockily queries.

Nicky gazes at Alex, lids collapsing under the eternal spell. "Who d'fuq is Shira?"

"Your ex?" Alex lazily offers. "The religious Israeli you met in Katz's? The one your mom actually approved of?"

"Genuinely cannot recall." Nicky leans back in her seat and stares down at the pedals, utterly bewildered. "Now, uh, is it _this _one? Lemme see..."

Alex knows it's Nicky's business and not hers, but they're forever prying in each other's extensive list of affairs, so she sees no harm in taking the questions further. "You _really_ don't remember that girl?"

"Who, the experimenter?" Nicky glances up and lays a hand on the wheel. "Nope."

"Lorna got crazy jealous? Called her a 'big nosed embezzler?' Led to that three-month fight between you guys?"

"Absolutely zero recollection." Nicky slowly shakes her head. "I don't normally delve down the, uh, ultra-Orthodox path. But, uh," a tiny smirk prises her lips, "Frank Zappa's song never fails to scratch my itch."

"What, 'Jewish Princess?'" Alex drawls, thoughts still cast in her hopeless haze.

"Tis' something, Vause. He wants, and I quote, 'a Yeminite hoe.' Now, if she's got a gorgeous rack, a nice juicy ass and a lovely wet cunt, I don't care if she's pink or blue. I'll fuck her til' the cows come home."

As Nicky creates a v-shape with her fingers and pokes her tongue through, Alex's usual eyebrow cocks at the brazen hand gesture; it's little she hasn't seen before. "Did you crawl out of Marka's womb with a libido even Casanova can't challenge? I worry for you, Nichols."

Nicky lowers her fingers and pats Alex's shoulder. "Lovely to know how much you care, man. Really appreciate the sentiment."

"Glad to see you don't undervalue me." Alex retorts. "I appreciate your appreciation."

With one hand settled loose on the wheel, Nicky switches on the ignition with the other, and the engine emits an almighty roar of resurrection. As it reduces to a throaty rumble, Nicky languidly leans back into the plush leather seat, and Alex reaccounts the spur of grandiose confidence from her friend. It's _obviously_ because of the car, for it's like a vortex of dripping luxury and extravagance. Alex begins to picture the string of women getting dragged into the car and fucked into oblivion (also having access to every drug right on demand). It's not far short of her own encounters, mostly bleach blondes with slim figures howling and screeching her name. Her car, much like Nicky's, contains the magnetic pull, the _wealth _that can draw anybody in.

Fuck, she can't wait to be a fully-fledged rock star.

"Yo, uh," Nicky's looking at the pedals once more, her murmurs impassive and unoccupied, and Alex vacantly gazes her way, "It's the _right_ one, right...?"

* * *

"...that bitch came _so _hard, bro. I fucked her tight little pussy real good. Bet she was wobblin' like a penguin the next day, the fuckin' slut..."

They're making their way to the house of choice, strolling through strange streets, almost apocalyptic in their deafening silence. Though their attire is far from Santa's style, what with Alex's sleek, heavy, _beautiful _fur coat and the cap still clung to Nicky's mane, _fuck _it, they're up-and-coming rock stars and they'll do as they dare, wear what they wish (resembling a pair of gangsters, no doubt), and forever fighting against societal normality. Nicky's parked her car somewhatcloser - after _finally _working out the pedals - but the proximity appears identical. Not that Alex has anything to protest, because they're there, on Christmas Eve (maybe Day?), chillen to the core, owning everything and more, rambling conversations futile and absent of all intent. That's the way she likes it; unpredictable, shambolic and pointless; it's fucking fantastic.

"...man, I played ten of those skanks against the other." Nicky continues, certainly riding for the fall, fluttering eyes now shielded by sunglasses. "They were all catfighting over me. Skimpy little numbers, big boobs wobbling everywhere, skin soaking with sunscreen. Twas' the sexiest shit I've ever seen."

"Remind me to tag along on your next womanising sexcapade around Europe." Alex says, a twinkling of envy shimmering into the night, but it's nothing she can't resist. "Why the fuck did I opt out last time? I could've picked up all that delicious pussy."

"Beats me, bro." Nicky drawls, incurable smugness seeping from within. "Opportunity knocks."

"Fuck opportunity." Alex rolls heavy eyes. "Book another flight, Nichols. You've still got mommy and daddy's trust fund lying around."

"Eh." Nicky shrugs slow, her tone dry and consumed by a defiant nonchalance. "I blew most of it on dope."

"That's what happens when you're born with a gigantic silver spoon up your ass." Alex gives a sardonic, almost vindictive chuckle, but it's still nothing she can't resist; her euphoric jamboree holds all the petty power. "We'd both be fucked if your mom stopped with those monthly cheques."

Nicky waves a flippant, dismissive hand, fingers weighted by her hefty ring display. "Fuck that bitch. I guarantee we'll be totally minted this time next year. Yo, we'll have sexcapades round Mykonos every weekend."

A fantastical image penetrates into Alex's high; rows of nude bodies on golden beaches, blonde locks and tanned skin ablaze, all stupefied by a doltish ignorance, and _fuck, _a sudden heat cruises straight to her core, and the exquisite show lingers in her brain. "Ooh, Mother Nature better make it rain soon. Now _that's _a life."

"Fuck yeah, man." Nicky smirks. "Clubs, booze, and many, _many _Greek goddesses fallin' at our feet. I fuckin' love foreign chicks."

The prolific abstraction only slips by slight, and Alex is determined to cling on for as long as possible. "Who'dve thought we'd end up in heaven?" She smiles airily, her countenance laced with pure lust.

"We deserve it, dude...uh, how we gettin' in here?"

Alex's sensual reverie is suddenly shattered by the appearance of a towering front door, only dimly lit by speckled spotlights. They're stood on the porch, wood creaking under the unwanted presence, but neither cares to consider such. The house is there, hovering before their stunned selves and they're doing it, wittingly imposing themselves on a world unknown, a peculiar world that harnesses what Alex wholly detests. The prospect only elevates Alex's flight, exciting her to the utmost, enhancing that unquenchable thirst for childish disobedience. It's possibly right and it's definitely wrong, _oh, _is it wrong, but Alex Vause is provided her own perception of morality, of legality, of what can and will be achieved.

"You find a hair pin, bro?" Nicky demands, tugging on Alex's coat.

"Paperclip." Alex fishes the item of discussion from her pocket; no doubt once responsible for keeping Nicky's filthy magazines intact, Alex caught the dismissed paperclip relaxing in the car's trash heap. "Wanna do the honours, Nichols?"

"Nah. Your idea. Stick it in there, Vause. Think of the clip as your finger and the keyhole as Sylvie's snatch. You even said she's got a tiny clit."

"She's a pro at oral." Alex dutifully inserts the opened paperclip into the lock. "I'm not complaining. Saves me jacking-"

"Irregardless of what happened earlier, I do _not_ care for the hourly operations of your penis."

"Really?" Alex jangles the paperclip in random directions. "I couldn't tell. With the way you're constantly talking about gigantic bazookas and the two hole-in-ones you're always aiming for, I just assumed you were into dick."

"You _wish _I was into dick."

"Such a high opinion of yourself, Nichols."

Nicky proposes a wink and insolently clicks her teeth. "What can I say, Vause? All the girls swoon over my swagger."

Alex gains control over her movement and begins to twist the paperclip at a ninety degree angle, only partially recalling the process. "And here's me thinking 'Princess Charming' and 'cocky fucktard' weren't the same thing."

"Who's the one with the make-believe girlfriends again?"

"Fuck off." Alex scoffs, keeping the motions consistent. "You know that's Sylvie's game. She seriously thinks we've got a twenty-year future ahead of us. And besides, we're both terrible at relationships. You just can't lose the ego and realise tha..." the lock suddenly loosens its rigid teeth, clicking into openness and invitation. "Shit, I think we're in."

"Yo, did you make the tension wrench?" Nicky mumbles, staring off at something or another.

"Your vagina is a tension wrench."

"I'm callin' that a 'maybe.'"

The door shifts by slight, hovering on ajar, and Alex unconsciously releases the paperclip from her hold. As the duo take an aimless step forward, the boards groan and screech in a panic, but neither stops to consider their actions. Absent of all cares and concerns, eyes opening, closing, opening again, Alex is trapped in the weary mist. Every sense of seething reluctance, the chance to snatch back what's unlawful and nefarious, is shattered by her high, with all that is socially adverse blurred into acceptability.

There's no purpose to this but she's doing it anyhow, because she _can_ and she _will._


End file.
